


The Only One

by PurpleHydrangeas



Series: Johnlock Fills [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Army Doctor John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Male John Watson, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Older Man/Younger Woman, Spy John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleHydrangeas/pseuds/PurpleHydrangeas
Summary: Sequel to The Other One. Sherlock's Mind Palace had a spacious doghouse in the garden for one MacPherson Watson-Holmes. When MacPherson becomes the target of an animal trafficking ring, Sherlock is prepared to stop at nothing to get him back, even if means offering up a few million of Mycroft's ill-gotten gains and spending a few years incognito on the Continent to make it happen. However, what happens when it is John, valiant and wonderful and obtuse John, who sees but does not observe, puts his all on the line once more to avenge MacPherson?





	The Only One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! This will be posted while I'm on Christmas break, so between now and early January. Expect an update within a day or two.

John was proud of the rhythm to his life. He’d spent much of his formative adult years as a solider, and he had got used to small routines that anchored him in the sameness and the chaos of military life. Small habits to keep him sane, in truth, were the carryover from being so responsible as a teen. Carrying the load of a sick mum and a sister who had never really given a shit about anything other than her latest obsession had shaped him. 

 Of course, the routines themselves changed over time, but they emerged after a period of change without fail. Once settled, became part of the fabric of his day, only to be changed by things like bombings, shootings, or the acquisition of a pet from a drainage tunnel. John appreciated his routines, valued how they bookended utter insanity. 

He did not like how HM’s official birthday mucked with his routines. He had a certain personal gratitude to the occasion, that was true, but he hardly wanted tourists filling London in preparation for said event on the one night he hoped to get home early. In any case, if push came to shove, he’d commander the black car that seemed to trail him overly obviously on date nights. He wasn’t above taking advantage of Mycroft’s childish teasing. 

Every morning, he was woken up by a slap to the face. Well, something akin to one. MacPherson could simply not bear to have any more time pass without a bit of a pet, so he would initiate the activity by trying to ‘pet’ John. Usually, this happened by bashing his paw on John’s face. At this point, he would crack an eye, and evaluate. If it was dark, he scooted over and let the dog into the bed and patted him until they fell asleep again. If it was light, he made his initial attempt to get out of bed. 

This attempt was typically hindered by a consulting detective who, despite her supposed lack of need for sleep, was quite cuddly in the morning. There was considerable variance in his routine in that area. John sternly focused his mind during his commute. It was hellish, and the last thing he wanted was to get papped with a goofy look on his face. 

 In any case, once he got out of bed, he spoke to MacPherson, filed his water bowl if it was empty, showered, dressed, walked MacPherson, came inside, interacted in varying ways with the aforementioned consulting detective with whom he shared bed and board, attempted to read the paper while MacPherson cried out at the indignity of not being given his morning paper to roll around upon, and consumed some form of carb with some form of protein with tea. The tea was a fixture, as was tracking a grumpy or energized mad genius either who was either happy or exasperated, depending on the circumstances of the day. 

Over the last months, John had gotten into a routine at the clinic, too. He strode into the building, bypassing the queues for meals, the bustle at the food closet, and the buzz of community spaces to pick up his mail at the office. He then stuffed what he might into his bag and lugged supply boxes across the corridor, and into the sitting room of the clinic. If he was on time, he had a few minutes to open his mail and put on tea and coffee for patients. If he was late, as he habitually was, he had just enough time to pull a file, grab a pen, and make certain his phone was on vibrate before someone was demanding his attention. 

He had built up something of a practice, and more than that, he had begun to serve as a community nexus for people who were most in need of support. On Tuesdays, the nutritionist volunteered, often bringing along the diabetes educator. He had a psychologist donating her time, a domestic violence centre providing support, and was in the process of finding a dental student to come and lend their expertise in the final parts of their training. 

Three weeks after opening his doors, he had faced his fate and reached out to local training colleges for a medical office assistant. He’d been sent Mickey, a young man working now at the clinic for internship hours, and precious little pay. He was a good lad, even if he was unnaturally attached to his white trainers and splashing out on clothing that announced his arrival before he himself had entered shouting distance. 

Such was the case today. Mickey was wearing his bright white trainers, and his designer t-shirt with faded jeans. John thought that Mickey stood a good chance of making something big of himself, and knew him to have a mum he loved devotedly, “Morning Doc. Got a busy day today, yeah?”

John took a look at his appointment book, and rubbed his eyes. He had so many slots filled that they bled onto the surrounding lines. “That we do. When Lucy comes in, please tell her if there’s an extra volunteer with nothing to do, we could use someone to unpack supplies.”

“Already done, Doc.” Mickey replied, “She’s sending Debbie, you know her? That woman with the six grandkids and the sparkly bag that has a schnauzer on it?” 

John knew Debbie, but he did not want to get drawn into an hour’s worth of conversation with Mickey about everything under the sun. Mickey was one to talk, and talk, and talk. John had been tempted to thank Sherlock on the many occasions she’d told him in no uncertain terms to be quiet, but poor Mickey was a bit afraid of Sherlock. Well, that, or bowled over by her. John knew it to be both, and hardly blamed the kid. Sherlock would have terrified him at Mickey’s age. 

While Mickey answered the phones and handled visitors, John had found that he spent most of his time working to encourage and support patients as they connected with services they needed. Last week, he’d spent a whole day trying to get a cooker installed in a family’s flat so that a pregnant mother could have cooked meals, her father could manage his diabetes, and they could make meals at home. Both were patients, and all told, John had spent about ten hours of time advocating for them to get a cooker, encouraging them to accept it, and assuaging fears that the Home Office would not deport them over a free cooker. 

His first patient blustered into his office just as John had shoved his phone back in his pocket. No, he did not support the idea of explosives in the flat, not even if Sherlock used the empty bedroom upstairs. If she blew a hole in the roof, John would consider them lucky. Sherlock was not one for safety protocols. 

“Doc’ll be with you in a tic, Laura.” Mickey assured her as he flipped the kettle on, and sipped his horribly overpriced Starbucks. He was finishing his internship in a few days, and John would miss him. However, he could not afford to pay him a respectable wage, and so he gave Mickey a glowing letter and wished him the best in his new post. He certainly added life to the office. 

John called out from where he was washing his hands in the tiny sink in the exam room. “You’re welcome to come on back, if you like.”

“Sorry I’m late, Doc.” Laura hefted a heavy cloth purse along with her as she boosted herself onto the exam table in a practiced fashion, “With them doing all that with the horses and what, getting here was a right pain.”

John, too, had noted the bustle that came with preparations for Trooping the Colour and the Queen’s official birthday. Tourists were out in droves, though John had consumed his tea and managed to get here without too much hassle. “It’s fine, Laura. Everyone’s probably going to be a bit late, today.”

He would have rescheduled people, but there simply wasn’t time. Anyone he pushed back would have had a hell of time getting a new slot, and everyone deserved their care, irrespective of ceremonial activities. “I’m surprised you haven’t got the radio on.” 

John did not tell her that he had had quite enough of observing soldiers melting in the heat. They could hear the guns and the noise from here, and that was quite enough of a reminder of his soldiering days. 

“We’ve more interesting things to listen to today,” John smiled, turning on the doppler wand as the young woman lifted her oversized shirt quickly. John placed the doppler wand, and in a moment or so after finding a heartbeat, spoke, “Like young Timothy.”

He allowed Laura to listen for a long moment. She had found precious little joy in this pregnancy, and whatever he could do to help her connect with this baby was something he was prepared to facilitate. John had a lot of obstetric cases. Something about people wanting the best they could provide for their children had them stepping forward for help despite fear and pain. 

“Doc, Timothy was last week.” Laura declared, wiping the gel off of her stomach as John continued on with her examination. She was coping with gestational diabetes, and so her pregnancy needed to be closely monitored. “I’m still trying out names for him. I’m thinking Marcus this week. What do you say?”

“Well,” John refrained from offering her his personal opinion of the names she was considering for her child. It was not his place to comment. His taste, personally, did not lean towards the latter name, as evidenced by the fact that he had named MacPherson MacPherson. Yes, the dog was a dog, but the point stood. “I think you have another six weeks to decide.”

“This one’ll come early.” Laura insisted, as she sat up again and righted herself. “You just watch, Doc.”

John sincerely hoped he saw no such thing, or anything like it. After all, the baby had a due date for a reason, and he was facing possible health complications owning to Laura’s lifestyle factors before her awareness of her pregnancy, on top of the gestational diabetes. “Well, then, in that case we’d better review plans for his arrival.”

Having got the part of the appointment that Laura most valued, they spent another hour discussing her test results, checking into progress Laura was making with various social service agencies that were helping Laura during her pregnancy, and so on. By the time she left, John was badly in need of five minutes to himself.

He didn’t get it. His schedule didn’t allow for it. He barely had time to shovel a plate of food into his face at lunch. By six o’clock, John had seen his patients, set a broken bone in an emergency, sewed up a cut, taken blood samples for STD testing, cuddled two babies, and helped two patients make initial contact with social services. 

Mickey had long ago headed out for the day, and the evening staff had already come in to their shifts at the shelter. John was therefore alone in the dimmed office light as a man came to the door. John had him pegged in a second. “Media requests are handled through the director’s office.”

The footsteps did not retreat. 

John looked at him over the top of his spectacles from where he was packing his bag. Carefully, he tapped an app on his phone. It glowed in the side pocket for a second as the governmental system flared to life. “I’m afraid I have nothing to say.”

“You’ve not heard my question.” The cadence of an American accent, roughly outside of Macon, Georgia, filled John’s ears. He’d been in the UK long enough to pick up speech patterns, but even his bearing retained something that pegged him as American. 

“If you don’t have an NHS number, yes, I will treat you.” John put another file in his bag, as the man entered the office and approached John’s desk. 

John did not reach for the light. “You’ll need to make an appointment.”

“Again with the assumptions, Dr. Watson.” The man chided, making so bold as to pick up the picture of Sherlock and MacPherson on his desk, his grip lazy as he continued, “Again with the assumptions.”

John was tired, he was hungry, and he’d pushed back their dinner reservations once already. “If you’ve something to say, say it. I don’t play word games.” 

“Pity.” The man retorted, setting the picture down, “I’d thought they’d be half the fun with her. As you see, Dr. Watson, I am capable of questioning my own assumptions.”

John rolled his eyes, and resisted the urge to straighten his desk. He had finger prints now, if he needed them, and he wasn’t about to defile them. “What is it, then, that I haven’t questioned?”

The man’s laugh was alien to John’s ears. “Soon enough, that will come to light soon enough. Why should I spoil the surprise on a day like today?”

John grabbed a pen and reached for a notepad, knowing that it was a slim chance to get his name, but he might get a date of return. All information was vital. “What day would you like to schedule your appointment, Mr…?”

“I’ll be in touch, John.” His companion’s beanie hat pressed flat against his skull, his digital watch glinting as he twisted his arm to look upon it, the eerie glow lighting his face for the barest second. “This is business, you get me?”

John hoped the security cameras in the hall had caught something, but he had enough to go on, with the simple glance at his face. “Well, then, let’s be perfunctory.” John smiled, “Get out.”

“As you wish,” The man replied, his accenting thickening, “But not without a souvenir.” 

John barely resisted the urge to snap the man’s arm in three places, rip it off, and shove it down his throat as he pocketed the silver frame that held the aforementioned photo. John knew this was a long game, and so he asked, “Would you care for an autograph?”  
“There’s that British humor.” The man snarked, as he turned and walked away, John watching his every move. 

John ended the recording, swiping his iPhone to upload the conversation to secure servers. Following that, he sent a single text to Sherlock, who by now was no doubt listening to what had happened. Ah, the wonders of technology. 

His phone rang. He did not answer it. Mycroft could wait. 

 He then made a sweep of the building, and found several bugs. Some of them looked very Mycroftian, but he couldn’t be too cautious. He obliterated them with the heel of his brogues and pocketed the detritus. He knew that act alone would have a black car at the flat before he arrived, if only to allow its occupant vent fraternal displeasure. 

If they were going to gather, they needed milk. And perhaps some biscuits. He could not face another terroristic threat or kidnapping attempt without something in his stomach. 

* * *

Once back on Baker Street, John reflected over the cult of Sherlock that had grown up around them. Speedy’s now had case memorabilia on the walls and the shops had cashed in on their location. John ignored the owl-eyed stare of the new shop assistant. Heather had the good sense to pretend he was a brick wall, and Randeep joked and laughed with everyone. 

The headlines next to the till blared: _Baker Street Bliss_ and _Watson on the Milk Run_ and _Deerhound and Deerstalker._ John paid for the milk and biscuits in cash, and headed home, avoiding eye contact with the Baker Street memorabilia now stocked in the shop. 

John came up the stairs carefully as he had literally just been taunted by some criminal who had it in for them. Mrs. Hudson was out, and the ground floor of Baker Street was silent, devoid of the sounds of Mrs. Hudson’s cantankerous cooker or her telenovelas. She was probably with Mrs. Turner next door, or her boyfriend under the guise of a book club.

Just as he was about to reach for the door, it was yanked open and John heard happy barks over Sherlock’s indignant declaration, “Thirty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds.”

In other words, his delay for milk and biscuits was totally pointless in her mind. “Mycroft sends his regrets.” Sherlock rolled her eyes, “Somehow he feels it rude to keep Luxembourg waiting.”

John said nothing beyond assuring MacPherson that he was home, and raised his eyebrows in silent question. 

He informed Sherlock of every detail he could recall as he tore into the biscuits. Sherlock had already begun to scribble on the fresh butcher paper on the wall. After quick discussion, Sherlock declared the man a journalist with some American tabloid. They accepted that conclusion on the basis of nearly weekly requests to learn more about MacPherson, who had been papped yet again at his agility class, leading to the aforementioned alliterative headline. 

“People are interested in you, old man.” John patted the dog’s fluffy body, “You can’t blame us for being cautious.”

“Baker Street is your home, and it’s where we will be.” Sherlock agreed, capping her pen with finality. It was yet another normal day at Baker Street, threats, villains, deductions, and dog drool, all wrapped up in one. 

John made a note to put the word out, in a thinly veiled post, that printing pictures of MacPherson would be met with legal action. The picture had been stolen. The American press had teeth, but they also had scruples, at least when it came to dogs, horses, and Father Christmas. He was very aware of most of the journalists that came sniffing around, and Mr. Macon wasn’t one of them. Still, Atlanta was a growing entertainment city of the American Southeast, and so it could be someone new looking to make a splash. 

“Well.” John rocked back on his heels, “Nan’s going on a bit of holiday to Greece and needs someone up at the farm. I rather thought we might make a holiday of it.”

Sherlock understood at once that in addition to this being the present she could not find in the flat, this was a chance to get MacPherson out of London until Mr. Macon played his hand. They’d had another bomb threat just six weeks ago. “Thank you, John.”

John had never needed to tell her that the farm was one place that made him vulnerable. She knew that, in some way, they were going back to the nucleus of who he was, in seeing the place that had shaped him from earliest childhood. “Nan’s expecting us tomorrow. That’s not too soon, is it?”

Sherlock shook her head. John passed it off as a trick of the light, though he though he saw her eyes mist over before she plucked the forgotten and untouched biscuit from his hand, tossed it at the counter, and kissed him soundly. John was gratified it meant so much to her. 

He’d meant to suggest the trip ages ago. It just hadn’t fit, somehow. Life got in the way and facing the past was hard. Then, Nan had called with the suggestion that he come up and mind the farm whilst she was away. He hadn’t been sure it would be possible until he’d realized it was important on a lot of levels, and he had therefore made it possible. 

He’d arranged their absence from NSY with Lestrade, recruited a few friends to cover his practice, and made sure the farm had acceptable internet speeds. He’d begun the process of hiring a car, but as per usual, keys had shown up in the post before he could call the firm back to arrange details. He and MacPherson had been a team in planning it all, even if MacPherson was something of a silent partner.  

Still holding her close, John joked, “I’ve set a rather high bar in terms of present giving, I think.”

Sherlock scoffed, “You may have done, within your capabilities.”

“Hey now.” John retorted, reaching for Sherlock as she stepped back to move the biscuit box away from MacPherson’s excitable reach, “I dare you to outdo a whole range of new data.”

“I shall not be goaded.” Sherlock bit back a smile, though it did not quite crest in her eyes. He realized then that she was hesitant, not on her account, but his own. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“Why?” John asked, suddenly very aware that this was not a discussion about a horrible jumper. She knew he’d love a horrible jumper. 

“Don’t push.” Sherlock faltered, “Please.”

John, respecting her wishes, did not push the subject. Something prodded the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite put his finger upon what it was or should have been. John told himself that they were both worried about this new game of cat and mouse and went on with their evening, which included bad takeaway and crap telly. 

* * *

 

By the next morning, Sherlock had baked a batch of biscuits for Nan. He’d earned himself a gentle reprimand when he’d tried to eat one, clipped MacPherson’s nails, binned everything in the fridge, and packed his bag. Sherlock packed her cases, readied MacPherson, and gathered her version of the basics for what she called the bare bones of a lab for her stay in Scotland.

Twitter was abuzz. People and TMZ had even picked up, somehow, their absence from London. The DM was utterly certain there was an engagement on the horizon. Sherlock scoffed at the idea, and muttered, “Mummy’s got operatives everywhere.”

John wisely did not comment on the fact that Mummy Holmes was apparently using the national media to push for an engagement. Once a spymaster, he knew, always a spymaster. Then again, that did rather explain the weird trends in his internet ads. Unless, of course, Mummy had followed Father Holmes to his club last month. 

He’d sworn not to tell her anything they’d discussed. He hadn’t been there to ask permission or for a blessing after all. He’d been there on Father’s invitation, as the man had warnings to issue. John knew well why. If Mummy knew, Sherlock would know. They hadn’t even discussed the possibility. John didn’t want to leap and land on his face. He thought a few conversations were the best way to come to a joint, mutual, decision. He wasn’t saying they had to happen this week, but he wasn’t going to pass the opportunity by if they did come round. 

Sherlock read obsessively on her phone for good portions of the drive. He figured she was studying up on something relevant to a case, though of course Sherlock Holmes never studied. She researched. The distinction was large, and woe unto him should he forget it. 

The six hundred and fifty mile drive passed rather quickly, considering the car was bugged and Sherlock slept most of the way. John checked twice to make sure she hadn’t been drugged, or more accurately, drugged herself. She’d done some massive experiment with every nicotine patch in the flat last night, and he wanted to make sure the drowsiness wasn’t some Sherlockian response to nicotine poisoning combined with dramamine and boredom. 

They stopped for lunch and to let MacPherson refresh himself when his schedule demanded a stop. They were stared at quite openly in the restaurant. Two teenage girls came up to Sherlock, who dispatched the requested advice in only the way she could do. As usual, her fans were too in awe of her to be hurt that they had just been given bad news.  The first girl had been told that her boyfriend was cheating in very frank terms. The other girl even laughed when she was warned she was being framed for stealing from the till at the shop where she worked. 

Most of the lunch was taken up by the aforementioned teens. John took the obligatory selfie with them, and then made polite suggestions that they head along. Sherlock was bored, and he didn’t want the bloom to go off the rose before he could shovel in his Cobb salad. 

There, sitting at the table, MacPherson underneath it, John took a moment to study Sherlock. Something wasn’t right. He felt it.  The increasing threat against MacPherson was no doubt wearing on her. They, however, had no reason to believe that this threat was anything more than the general issues that came with the territory of their lives. 

“It’s going to be all right, Sherlock.” John tried, for he knew that there hadn’t been a major case in some weeks, and that the lack of a puzzle meant that every bit of her brainpower was solely focused on their dog’s welfare. 

“I don’t need platitudes.” Sherlock returned, picking her way through her “I’m not an idiot.”

John said nothing. It wasn’t a platitude. It was a promise, with everything that entailed. 

They passed the meal in silence, which John knew would be just lovely for the blind gossip sites. He could see it now. _What not-quite celebrity couple whose life resembles a bad reality series was spotted outside their habitual location, entourage in tow, looking quite put out with one another? Sources at the restaurant state that the almost reporter picked at a salad, whilst the guts and glamour girl ignored her chips. But, then again, who wouldn’t, too, want to be them?_

John would never tell, but the blog that was most astute regularly received blinds from a source in the know, one who was sitting across the table from him. Sherlock said that if her Aunt Mari was going to force her to play nice with celebrities for charity, at least she should get something out of it. John thought it one of her more benign hobbies. He could have lived, however, without knowing that his favorite singer was actually a shit human being. 

Still, they finished their meal and got on with the trip. He felt hesitation churning in his gut. Going back home was so strange. He tried to avoid it, largely because he was at war within himself. He wanted to be there, but he didn’t want to put back in the boxes he had worked so hard to break when he left. He wasn’t that kid anymore. 

He wasn’t the person he once had been. He wasn’t the dutiful son. He wasn’t suffering in silence anymore. He wasn’t hauling his drunk sister out of the barn before she burned it down. And yet, every time he went home, it was as though every one of his self-doubts rose again to haunt him. There, on the farm, he was enough. It was enough for him, but he had never been enough for it. 

John shoved away his thoughts as he drove. Sherlock was quiet. He didn’t dare ask if she, too, was nervous. She wouldn’t deign to answer such an obvious question, and he’d about hit his insult quota for the day, given that his own brain had been firing them off since they’d pulled away from Baker Street. 

They arrived at the dirt track that led back to the farm shortly after dusk. There was a way by road, but he’d always come home this way, and tradition ran strong here on this land. He also wanted to avoid going through the village, and setting the gossip lines ablaze. 

Sherlock had nodded off once more, and so John took a long moment to stop the car and simply stare at the house on the hill. The fields were being worked by a neighbor’s son, keen for a farm of his own. Ormond Farm was not for sale, and certainly not to Tom. His son was not half as bad as the father, but John saw them as a package deal. 

John let a barrage of feeling wash over him. He wasn’t sure what to do with it all. It had been a long time. Too long. He could see the wash on the line and the chicken house shut up for the night. Emotions rioted within him. He sat at the top of the track until MacPherson barked in anticipation and Sherlock roused. John began to drive before she might ask about his dallying. 

When their headlights flashed across the window as they pulled to a stop, the front door was pulled open, and Nan was rushing into the yard behind Chowley, who was eager to sniff any new person that came into his domain. 

Sherlock reached over the seats to unbuckle MacPherson, and reminded him gently, “Be gentle with the terrier, MacPherson.” 

“His name is Chowley.” John informed the deerhound, and swallowed. 

His mouth was very dry. He had a strong urge to go and tie one on, and resisted it. He felt as though he had fallen back in time, and found some aspect of himself that he had left here. It was strange to feel as though he was meeting himself once again, behind the trepidation and regret. Somewhere, there was a John Hamish Watson who had come to life here on this farm, and there was some part of his soul that had never left it.  

John got out of the car as Sherlock opened her own door. Nan’s greetings were practical, but John saw the warmth in her eyes and felt it in her hug. She concluded her hellos and how are you’s with, “Well, that was a long drive, wasn’t it? Come along, then. I’ve put on tea.”

And then, and then, Sherlock’s hand was on his elbow, a gesture of support she’d deduced he’d needed. It was welcome, largely because he felt he had been kicked in the gut. He’d been home since his discharge, but he hadn’t spent any significant time here for years. And yet, nothing had changed. The front room still had the same sofa, albeit with new slipcovers, and the pictures on the wall amplified the feeling of walking into his childhood. 

John forced himself to breathe. He forced himself to look at this place through Sherlock’s eyes. She could be cold, dispassionate. He needed to feeling nothing. John looked to Sherlock quickly as Nan chatted and led them through the house to the rambling kitchen at the back that Gramps had long-ago expanded with a bucket of nails and his own two hands. 

Sherlock’s eyes were bright. There were patches of colors on her cheeks as she chatted with Nan. Her pulse hammered in her blueish veins. John found not dispassion in her countenance, but interest, wonder, and when her gaze fell upon him, compassion. Her deductions were swift and sure. He had never expected coming back to be this much, to be this intense, to be this bad. 

Sherlock’s hand slid into his own as Nan turned to fix the tea. John wondered if he was shaking. The last time he had come here, stood in this house was before he’d met Sherlock. Upon his release from rehab, Clara and Harry had hauled him up here for a long weekend of feeding up. It had gone just spectacularly. 

Sherlock blinked after entering the kitchen and being told to sit. John saw the questions and realizations in her eyes, but said nothing beyond answering Nan’s questions about their trip. John had hardly been handed a mug of tea when Nan declared, “John, go carry in your bags to your room. You need a moment.”

Sherlock deduced him in a second, and nodded her assent. He needed air. MacPherson and Chowley loping at his side, John cut out of the kitchen through the side door. The old swing still creaked in the breeze as he followed the worn stone path past the fairy cottages hidden in the garden and to the boot. John unloaded all of the bags onto the front porch, and forced himself to breathe yet more. 

He had never quite seen Sherlock so social without the aid of a case to push her along, and he wasn’t sure as to her deductions, but he knew they would be plentiful. Was she holding them back, still processing, or trying to make an impression on Nan? He had himself noted a thousand details that would be of interest to Sherlock as she entered a this place. He did not linger on thoughts of what she might deduce about his Nan, nor did he allow himself to consider what new depths of himself was now bare to her soul. 

John caught snippets of their conversation, fleeting words about this and that, topics he wasn’t able to follow as he went up and down the stairs in multiple trips. Sherlock’s voice lilted crisply over Nan’s comfortable tones, but John heard joy in their voices that was genuine and unrestrained. He wished he’d thought to linger in the doorway, because conversation died when he came into the room. 

He felt out of place and odd in his childhood home, mostly because Sherlock was now looking down at her mug and Nan was looking between them with something very crafty in her eyes. John blurted, “What?”

“What, nothing.” Nan replied, as was her with impertinent questions badly phrased, “I’m happy to have you home, and hope you’ll stay.”

“In your absence, Nan.” John warned her gently, “We’re here for as long as your holiday.”

He hated to crush whatever hopes she might have harbored. Still, it was kinder than allowing her to harbor hopes that he was going to become a country doctor with seven children, three dogs, and a cantankerous cat. She had never left behind the hopes he’d find a nice girl. 

‘Nice’ was far too pale a word to describe anything relating to one Sherlock Holmes. She had a depth of empathy and kindness, but nothing about her was so banal as to be phrased nice. Still, everything he loved and needed in and about his life was nothing that his Nan wanted for him. 

“I’m sorry we don’t have longer to visit.” Sherlock added, “You’re welcome at Baker Street.”

Well, John paused in thought. That was telling. Baker Street was home, and Sherlock barely let Lestrade in their flat. Offering to have Nan to stay clearly said that, despite the short duration of their relationship, Sherlock saw much of which to approve in his grandmother. They were a bit of an odd couple, but John knew they would get along famously. 

“Me in London?” Nan replied, slicing healthy a portion of cake and passing it to John to match the smaller slices she’d already served herself and Sherlock, “The very notion gives me hives.” 

“My father detests London.” Sherlock replied, picking up her own fork, though John knew she had no intention of eating it. “Mummy less so. I moved there to escape them.”

Nan arched her eyebrow. “Yet you see your mother twice a month and your siblings daily.”

“John told you.” Sherlock declared, before consuming a bite of the spice cake. John could have eaten the whole thing, but he paced himself and rose to get a glass of milk from the fridge in the corner. 

John heard Nan reply as he got a glass out from the glass-fronted cupboards. “No.”

Sherlock posited another theory as John found the glass bottle in the door, and gently guided MacPherson and his new buddy away from the contents, “You read the blog.”

“I don’t talk about your parents on the blog.” John replied, knowing that Nan was making something of a point to them both. “Or Mycroft all that frequently.”

Sherlock tilted her head, as her curls bounced, restrained in a ponytail. “Well?”

Nan grinned as John returned to his seat, “Well, what?”

John could see the edges of a confused moue pulling at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “I wish to know how you arrived at that conclusion.”

“And reveal my sources?” Nan laughed, patting MacPherson while ignoring his nosy poking for a lick of her cake, “Never.”

John reached out and brought the dog to heel at his side with a gentle grasp of his collar, “Sit, you beggar.” MacPherson lolled his head to the side as Chowley left his basket in the hopes that he would succeed where the larger canine had failed. 

“Just please affirm it’s not my brother.” Sherlock replied, “If he should ring you, and want information—”

“MacPherson, no.” Sherlock’s attention was pulled over to the dog, who was laying down, yes, but had put his head on nan’s slippers, and was therefore mouthing the wooly fronts. 

John sighed as MacPherson corrected himself. This trip was off to a lovely start. MacPherson had left a hostess gift on his Nan’s shoes. John ate his cake. 

“Oh, he drove up here, but it wasn’t him.” Nan offhandedly sipped her coffee, “He’s a nice lad, truly.”

“Mycroft Holmes is not a nice lad.” Sherlock disagreed, her tone chiding and shocked, “He’s the face of everything wrong in the United Kingdom, including the fact that nobody makes decent wellies anymore.”

John rolled his eyes, and patted MacPherson, who was rolling on his belly to obtain attention from John now that Chowley had been banished back to his basket with the firm statement of his name. MacPherson seemed to be rubbing in his location to Chowley.  “He sent them to China to spite you, Sherlock.” 

“You buy that horrible cover story about outsourcing?” Sherlock looked at him, aghast, “How can you be so gullible, John? It’s hardly to your credit.”

“He is a lovely boy.” Nan returned, ordering Chowley to stay in his basket, “He changed lightbulbs all through the house and moved the sofas before rolling back the carpet in Spring.”

John broke into laughter as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in glee. “You made him work for information?”

“I gave him dirt, in the Hoover bag.” Nan revealed, “All that work wasn’t in vain.”

John could just see Mycroft cleaning Nan’s drafty stone farmhouse. “Nan, you’re evil.”

“She’s brilliant.” Sherlock declared, and that, John knew, was that. Something warm bloomed in his belly that had nothing to do with the fact that he ate half a cake before bed. 

* * *

He saw Nan off in the morning, glad they were alone. She went on about how much she liked Sherlock, and John knew had Sherlock heard it, she would have been glad to provide Nan with a thousand reasons to loathe her. “Now, John, you have a nice time and mind the girls.”

“Of course, Nan.” John promised her, lifting her luggage into the boot, “Don’t worry about a thing here.”

“I surely won’t.” Nan agreed, clasping his hands one final time, “I’m going to sun myself until I come back as brown as your Grampy’s old saddle.”

“Sun care is—” John began, wishing anew that he could make her slather herself in 75 SPF and wear a hat at all times. 

Nan cut him off with a merry laugh as she got in her friend Susan’s car to head for the airport, “Oh, do something reckless once or twice in your life. You might find you enjoy it.”

John found himself watching her as they drove off, wondering how a man who was involved in at least one noteworthy crime a fortnight could be perceived as boring and staid. John looked down at the hen at his side, “I won’t tell her if you don’t.” 

The hen clucked gently, and John nodded, “Right then. We have an agreement.”

Realizing that he was talking to a chicken, John decided he needed more coffee. He ate his eggs and toast and drank coffee in solitude. Sherlock had done a bit to set up her lab last night in the dining room, with Nan as an eager assistant. That said, she was huddled under the covers and it was there he intended to leave her. 

 The house was odd without Nan puttering in the kitchen or working in the gardens. John puttered in the kitchen at the back of the house alone. Not even Chowley wanted to keep pace beside him. Sherlock had a new admirer in Chowley, who took residence at her side and stole John’s pillow after Nan had bade him farewell and the tarrier required somewhere warm to sleep. 

After his quick breakfast, John set about getting a handle on things once more. He greeted Carter, the boy who came round in the morning and afternoons to help Nan, and put to the various chores that had defined his growing up years. 

John tried to excise the ghosts rioting within him. He didn’t like being in a place where Hamish John Watson had been at one time. He didn’t like thinking that his father could find him. It shook him until he remembered that he was a trained solider, that he had been a spy. Hamish was afraid of him. He would not come. He had never once come, not even when Mum was dying within the confines of the stone walls of Nan’s house. He heard her laugher on the breeze, and heard her sobs and wheezing when the wind picked up and whipped around him. 

The sweat that poured off of him helped ground him to reality. He was not a child. He was not subject to the past here. He was not here to connect with the past, but to build the future. He held, as though with worn and bleeding fingertips, to that truth. 

By midmorning, Sherlock had tugged on her cherished wellies and begun to make notes on the various animals. There wasn’t that much work to be done these days as the small farm was bare bones in that the only animals left were the ones Nan couldn’t bear to sell off, but John manufactured excuses to stay in the barn and outside to avoid going into the house.  

 John and Carter came upon her in the afternoon, sitting on the edge of the chicken swing. She was scribbling notes, and Carter made no bones about asking, “What’s she doing?”

“I,” Sherlock spoke for herself as well she should, “am designing an observational study, relating to the flocks’ quality of life, productivity, and activity.”

John had no doubt that she would have a bevy of findings ready for dissemination upon Nan’s return. John wasn’t sure she quite wanted the input, but Sherlock’s heart was in the right place. She knew Nan was getting on in years, and was trying to lighten her load. 

Carter rubbed his face in disbelief, “What’s that going to do?”

Sherlock looked up then, and John saw that she had a smudge of dirt on the edge of her cheekbone. Frostily, Sherlock replied, “It will improve flock dynamics. If my hypothesis proves true as it did for my parents, then the hens will begin to adjust their patterns with an eye towards increased egg-laying. Gwen’s told me they have been irregular as of late and her dietary changes have not altered that trend.”

Carter considered this for a long moment. “You should call it ‘The Case of Cluck’ or ‘The Clucking Case.’”

“Your naming suggestions are certainly not as banal as John’s selections.” Sherlock praised over John’s good natured objections, “Now tell me, what is this hen’s name?”

“Er…” Carter shoved his hands in his back pockets, looking to John for guidance, “Chicken.”

“A chicken called Chicken.” Sherlock tilted her head, and batted her eyelashes, “Fascinating.”

“Er, really?” Carter asked, evidently unaware that Sherlock was having him on. 

John stifled laughter as Sherlock snapped, “Of course not! Ask John to teach you how to lie, if you must do it, at least you should do it properly.”

Carter looked to John, “Would you?”

“I’m not contributing to the corruption of a minor.” John clapped him on the shoulder, “Tough luck mate. You’ll have to learn the same way we all did.”

“Speak for yourself.” Sherlock turned back to her work, “I am innately gifted.”

“You also have feathers in your hair.” John revealed, as he directed Carter onward. 

The expression on her face as they’d walked away changed the entire tenor of John’s day. 

* * *

The first days of their stay passed slowly. Sherlock was contented to ramble around the farm. She sunned herself like a cat in the sun drenched bed they shared at the back of the house. She took small cases by Skype and email. Her brilliant mind and laser focus seemed centered on the farm. Though he knew it was a temporary shift, it was amazing to watch her brilliance shine in a new setting, especially one that held as many conflicting feelings and memories as did Ormond Farm.

Seeing the farm through Sherlock’s eyes helped him to relax. He forgot to remember the past when he saw the present through her eyes. John slowly made new memories at Ormond, memories that outweighed some of the old ones in their intensity and emotional resonance. Slowly, slow, he felt himself beginning to let go. 

John spent the evenings in the soft lamplight of the farm kitchen cooking meals Sherlock actually ate. MacPherson joined him trampling through the fields and skittered after the girls and barked at the goats. Chowley was given new life with a buddy to acclimate to the farm. 

In a sense, John felt them in their own little world. The newspapers didn’t hound them. Twitter fell off of their radar. Sherlock was consumed with experiments and botany and sketching and cataloging. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he found himself wondering if they might make trips to the farm more of a regular happening. She seemed to sparkle. 

John knew, on the basis of rationality, and his history of training and being a psychiatric patient, that what he was experiencing was the temporary uptick in his emotions as he finally let go of baggage. He was releasing his past. Of course he felt weightless. He’d been dragging around tonnes of bricks for years. He didn’t know what had helped him to make the shift over the last week, but he supposed it had begun the very moment he had realized Sherlock Holmes was sitting with the chickens with their feathers unintentionally in her hair. 

He was not unaware of the drawbacks of being out here, irrespective of past emotional trauma. There was no good takeaway, and there was nowhere to stomp when he needed to avoid the fumes of sulphur and burnt hair. There was nothing to do but hose him off when MacPherson rolled in cow pats, after which he had to listen to Sherlock fuss over the calibration of a bath temperature without her thermometer and MacPherson’s bath mat. He was therefore treated to varying treatises on the germs found in said excrement.  

Yes, there were drawbacks. After all, one was standing before him, despite the fact that he’d tried to play it off as though he wasn’t in the barn. Sherlock, of course, was nowhere to be found. Chowley, farm dog that he was supposed to be, much preferred her company. Thomas, sadly, had come here and sought him out. 

 There was no small talk as Tom got to his point, calling out as he did as he walked away from his 4x4, “Don’t suppose you’re yet interested in selling off, Johnny?”

“Tom.” John smiled, greeting the man as he came out of the barn, “I’ve made it clear, and so has Nan. The Watsons have no interest in selling off. You’re wasting your breath asking.”

“Your gran’s getting on in years, Johnny. Your sister’s got the farming sense God gave a snail. You might have been something useful, but you ran clean off.” Tom grinned, and John noted that he hadn’t yet given up smoking despite poking at Harry’s recovery like she hadn’t been sober for years, “Face facts, son. We’ll give your family a fair price.”

“We’ll cross bridges as we come to them.” John returned, tugging his gloves back on his with rigid tugs not unlike those he’d once used in theatre, “I’d advise you not to go burning them.”

“I can take a hint as well as anyone.” Tom chortled, “I’ll bide me time. Thanks for the tip.”

John would have liked to give him several tips. Instead, he simply nodded, and strode away, satisfied that he had not given Tom the respect of a farewell. The old guy had been bothering since the day after Gramps had died, and she had vowed then she’d burn the place to the ground before selling to him. 

John did not allow himself to think about the reality that it was very likely that they would have to sell Ormond Farm to him. Already, Nan was reliant on hired help just to keep her few pet animals left here alive. She was pushing her eighth decade, and the land was already worked by someone else. 

And yet, something in John could not envision that future. Instead, he found himself thinking about being here more. He found himself thinking of MacPherson spending his days by the fire with his stuffed moose. He hated himself for it. 

One could not run a farm from London, not while being a doctor with a stuffed practice, and certainly not while being Sherlock’s blogger. Sherlock, despite the fact that she went on about beekeeping, belonged in the City. She belonged with that bustle. It was in her blood. He would no sooner ask her to leave than he would consign her to a life of rustication. She was Sherlock bloody Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes was suited to the well-heeled environs of Chelsea and the seedy goings-on that went behind that polished veneer. She was devoted to digging in the skips and dives and squatters haunts and seeing the real and honest human strength found in those spaces. 

Still, John went back to work and found himself wondering if there was a free clinic outside Inverness. Mucking yet another corner of the dairy barn, John muttered to himself about insane doctors who lost their marbles north of Hadrian’s Wall. It was one thing to let go of the bad memories. It was quite another to idealize the good ones. 

* * *

Thankfully, the next day, he and Sherlock went to town, leaving the dogs in Carter’s care. There was a bit of shopping to do, and John was eager to remind himself that their lives were in London. He did the shopping as Sherlock texted and added random treats to their basket, and saw every friend of Nan’s it was possible to meet in the process.

Sherlock wandered off when it pleased her, and they met up back in the car. “Are you ever going to carry the shopping?”

Sherlock, on FaceTime with Molly, merely flicked her eyes his way and intoned, “Certainly not.” 

“Hello, John!” Molly called out from the lab. John could hear the spray of the sinks in the back as Molly went about her work day. 

“Hey, Molls.” John replied as he slid into the driver’s seat, fully expecting their discourse to pick up again. It didn’t. Once again, conversation had died upon his arrival. John wasn’t stupid. He knew something was up. He hoped it wasn’t a weird specimen or a new dog. 

When Sherlock ended the call, John blathered on about the shops. He waited approximately until they were back at the turn-off to the farm to get to the heart of the matter. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

They were turning onto the road that led to the farm when Sherlock replied, “You rushed out last week. I had to think.” 

“I assume you have done since last Friday.” John replied, knowing full well that there had been the span of days since they’d left London. There had been little to do here but think. John had seen the upsides of it in some respects, but now he questioned himself. 

“Don’t be obtuse. If you would only think about what’s going on in the here and now, you wouldn’t even have to ask.” Sherlock replied, “There was approximately less than one third of one percent of this happening. Still, it is not beyond your powers of observance.”

“I’m still not clear what you’re talking about.” John switched off the car as he pulled to a stop behind Gram’s comfortable Ford and next to Carter’s beater. John made a mental note to talk to Carter about not parking in wet grass, “I’ll be the first to admit I’m not getting it, but I don’t have a whole lot to go on, Sherlock.”

“You see, but you do not observe, John.” Sherlock’s gaze softened as she chided him, “Send Carter home.”

“Then we’ll have this out.” John half-asked, half-declared, and entirely begged. 

Sherlock opened the door, and was already walking inside. It was clear to John that they were in accord. John, carrying only the frozen and chilled groceries, followed Sherlock inside. Everything else could wait. 

They arrived back at the farm, to find Carter Snapchatting who knew what in the kitchen with Sherlock’s makeshift lab in the background, “Hullo.”

John waited for the clatter and scrabble of giant paws. They had given Carter strict instructions that the dogs were to stay in the house in the absence. He had revisions to do, and so John had thought that this rule would help the kid get his work done and keep curious dogs out of trouble. 

Quickly, John looked to Sherlock, whose face had gone a particularly alarming shade of grey. “Where’s MacPherson?”

“DI Lestrade was here, said he was meeting you lot for dinner and wanted MacPherson to meet you.” Carter replied to Sherlock’s tone with a lazy tone as he thumbed his phone’s screen, “He showed me the texts and—”

Sherlock had already shoved her phone in his face, knocking his own to the floor. “Was it this man?”

“No, that’s not DI Lestrade.” Carter swore as he nearly tripped over Chowley, “He’s got dark hair.”

For his part, John had already pulled out his phone and tapped the emergency button. Mycroft picked up in the middle of the first ring, “You’re not Barack.”

“MacPherson’s been abducted.” John was already out the door doing a sweep. There were tyre tracks in the grass, as though his abductor had peeled out of there quickly. He berated himself for being so focused on Sherlock that he’d observed nothing of note on their journey home. John spotted something in the grass, and felt his gut clench. MacPherson’s moose was being pecked at by one of the more dotty chickens. 

When John finished his sweep of the yard, moose in hand, he came round to the front of the house and heard Sherlock yelling, “There’s a reason the papers call him a silver fox! You’ve got a Tumblr! You’ve certainly encountered Sherlockians! Why didn’t you call?”

John read the text that popped up on his phone. _NSY on their way. Least irritating detective on a chopper now. Locals two minutes out._

John replied in the affirmative, and texted an old friend who was based in Glasgow. They’d keep an eye on things. John had no doubt they’d want a ransom. He was prepared for a phone call to that end. Sherlock, however, when he came into the room had left behind Carter as suitable prey and was rattling off deductions and statements in English, French, and interestingly, Farsi. 

John was determined not to let her suffer this alone. “Sherlock.” John made short work of putting the moose in her hands, “He’s not been gone for more than two hours. Ransoms rarely, if ever, hurt their captives.”

“Oh yes, thank you for reminding me that he’s probably in abject terror, John!” Shelock then began to rattle on about kidnapping statistics. 

John was going to interrupt her as he opened his laptop and began to set up an illegal tap on Sherlock’s cell phone. Then, however, she stopped. No further sound came out of her mouth as she she sank into a chair, and retreated to her mind palace. He knew he was seeing Vienna all over again. Something inside John shifted. He knew he should have killed Mr. Macon when he’d had the chance. 

“What can I do?” Carter asked, wan and horrified at the shift in Sherlock, “Anything. Please.”

John understood where the kid was coming from, and sent him off to make tea just as the locals pulled up in their panda. He had done something thoughtless, but he likely wasn’t in league with anyone who wanted to hurt MacPherson or wished him ill. 

John continued tapping away on his computer. If he got caught phone tapping, at the very least Mycroft would bail him out. He didn’t trust a tap he didn’t have some hand in executing these days, not with his insights into the government over the last year. It was getting tougher these days with advances in technology, and his lack of organized training, but he kept his finger on the pulse of things. He only wished he wasn’t trying to hunt down whoever had done this to their dog. 

John called for the PCs to enter, and found that Evie Upton entered the kitchen. He supposed he owed Mycroft and Lestrade a favor. Evie was probably one of the less irritating locals. John greeted her, and filled her in quickly. What she might do was beyond him, but at least this had the veneer of going through the correct channels. 

“Er, so you lost your dog, yeah?” Evie was a nice person, for all that she had once shoved worms down Harry’s dress. All told, Harry had deserved that, and more still. 

John couldn’t help the challenge in his response, “He’s the world’s only consulting canine. He was last seen 82.7 minutes ago. There are sedan tyre marks in the drive. Whoever took him used falsified NSY identification and had fabricated text messages—”

“They’re easy enough to fake and screenshot, no?” Evie asked as she at least pretended to take notes, “Chances are, they’ll—”

With that, the phone Sherlock was holding tightly began to buzz. She fumbled to answer it. “Bring him back.”

Sherlock put the phone on speaker, and John scanned the screen carefully, waiting for the connection to register in his programming. 

Mr. Macon spoke, “I’ve no desire to hurt you, ma’am. By all accounts, you love Hector—”

Sherlock recoiled as though she had been slapped. John reached over and grasped her shoulder gently. “His name is MacPherson.”

“No doubt you love Hector—” Macon drawled, “but, as you say, love is a deficit on the losing side.”

John could not bear to see Sherlock’s words used against her. Macon had just signed his death warrant. “What do you want?”

“I told you, John, didn’t I, that you were incapable of seeing beyond your suppositions.” Macon replied, static on the line. John prayed the program would come through and he would have a location within seconds, “Hector was never a homeless mutt. He was bred and trained for one purpose, and one purpose only. You subverted that purpose.”

“You left him in a drainage tunnel to die!” Sherlock screamed, the phone nearly sliding from her grasp as she hissed between ragged breaths, “What was the purpose in that?”

“I don’t abuse my animals.” Mr. Macon declared, “He’s not mine. I’m the go-between for an influential client who wants their investment back. Await further instructions. I know you prefer to text.”

Sherlock demanded anew, “Where is MacPherson?” 

The line went dead. Sherlock’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. Her hands shook as she passed it over to John, Evie reading over his shoulder. _You thought this was a ransom, didn’t you? Afraid not, folks. This is reclamation of property. The owner wants damages. £4 Million in USD, no cops. Reply when the money is secure._

Sherlock typed a single word. _Secure._

John nodded slowly. This was not a time to hedge their bets. Mr. Macon would never get the cash, but the sooner they could move this along, the sooner MacPherson was home. John decided that if he wanted to roll in cow pats every day of his life, they’d figure out how to build a farmyard in central London. 

Sherlock tapped send. 

* * *

There came a welcome voice in the doorway less than three, empty, biting, hours later. Sherlock was writing on the dining room wall. He’d meant to repaint it anyway. The blood-red marker she was using made the room look like a murder scene. “I do hope you realize, Sherlock, that four million pounds is not a sum I carry in my wallet.”

John had not been able to do anything reach out to various contacts. He had made some progress, but felt useless. There had been no communication. He knew the ports and motorways were on alert, but what little Carter had been able to remember about the vehicle had yielded nothing thus far. Evie had driven a shaken Carter home for the night. 

Mr. Macon himself was a ghost, for John’s searches had yielded almost nothing. He had a former friend with benefits at the CIA doing a bit of off the record checking. 

“That’s only because there’s no room in your trousers for pockets.” Sherlock stood on shaky feet, and pressed her hands to the cast iron sink after leaving the dining room behind. 

John didn’t want to call attention to it with Mycroft staring intently at Sherlock, but she looked seconds from collapse. He could only imagine the detail of the scenarios playing out in her head, given how many times she had been captured and held for ransom. 

Just then, an email flashed across John’s screen. Mr. Macon had been identified. His name was Michael Westin. He was involved in the import and export of animals to the US. He didn’t, however, specialize in helping Fido hop the pond with papers to avoid quarantine. No, he focused on the slightly illegal, the exotic, and the downright endangered. Why, then, was MacPherson of interest to him? Even with clients that had the stones to demand $5.5USD and steal their dog besides, something did not wash. 

Still, he scanned the email. Michael Weston preferred cargo ships and travel by sea. John knew where he would head in an instant. This had been planned. He would have one waiting, if at all possible. They needed to get to the port.

Glancing at Sherlock’s wall, it was clear that she had arrived at the conclusion that sea travel would be the most preferred action. Already, the airport’s vet teams were on the lookout for a deerhound of any stripe in the UK. They’d already to go through the pain of affirming that dogs one through four were not MacPherson.  

Greg bustled in after Mycroft, stopping only for a scant moment to take in the scene before him. “Well, we might as well follow whatever lead John’s got.”

Sherlock was on her feet and heading toward the door. Instead of rattling off deductions, she merely demanded, “Let’s go.”

She didn’t say the game was on. This was no game. 

When they got to the Port of Inverness, Sherlock wasted no time in bolting towards the storage areas. Mycroft reached out to grab her arm as her long stride wobbled when the flooring changed depths. John was shocked to see that level of reactivity from Mycroft, who would have clearly seen that she was well on her way to righting herself before John’s hand had even found her arm. 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” Sherlock shoved her brother away and raised her chin. 

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, as he looked to John with something knowing and vaguely terrified in his eyes. 

 Still, they had a plan. Sherlock’s brain had taken over, and her deductions had flown thick and fast. She was focused as a laser, and as deadly as a missile. What John knew now about Michael Weston was enough to make his blood boil. Government reports came through quickly when he had a name. Had he waited another twenty minutes, he would have had voice-matching evidence rendering a name unneeded, but time was of the essence.

In silent accord, they began making their way towards the storage areas. It was likely, according to Sherlock, that MacPherson would not be moved to a boat until well into the night. The sun was fading, but the docks were still a busy hive of people. No one would want to risk being seen with an animal. Too many questions were liable to be asked. 

The far corner of the storage units were blocked off for further expansion. John knew, in an instant, that if MacPherson was hidden anywhere here, it would be behind the false security of construction barriers and danger signs. John took point as Greg headed around to the back exits. 

Sherlock scrambled easily over the barrier, and only rolled her eyes when Mycroft strolled easily under the taped off entrance near the wall. John was not surprised to see them one-upping one another, even in this. 

The majority of the doors to storage units had been removed. They fanned out to search them. It was Sherlock who made a small noise from where she was searching near a pile of crates. She crouched down, and by the time John and Mycroft had made it to her side, she was bagging a tuft of hair. It looked as though it had been ripped out by the roots. There was a roll of duct tape in the detritus. Sherlock bagged that, too. 

Sherlock said nothing as she passed the bag to Mycroft. John’s rage made him languid as they followed impressions of muddy footprints to the fire exit. In a quick glance, he saw that it had been disabled. Mycroft stepped back to finish their search. 

John merely gestured forward as Sherlock shoved her way through the door. Greg was already coming up the side of the wide building in the fading light. Darkness was beginning to fall around them, and it stood to reason that MacPherson had been moved. John was not going to let his mind articulate what had been done with that tape. 

He called out softly, “Nothing in the back.” 

They headed down to the Harbor Office, earning themselves the interest of the few people hanging about and working. They had to move quickly. It was Greg who smoothed the way, much to Sherlock’s consternation, “Hello, ma’am, DI Lestrade with New Scotland Yard.”

The woman working the office had clearly heard the name before, because her brown eyes widened. “What can I do—” she looked at the motley crew in front of the intake desk, and continued, “for all of you?”

Sherlock spoke then, “An international criminal is docked here. He has my dog, not to mention a quantity of illegally obtained animals and animal artifacts.”

That was a smart opening. The girl at the desk was a former steak-loving recently impassioned vegan, had a dog, and had recently cleaned out both her kitchen and her closet. She could barely look at the leather shoes Mycroft wore, or Sherlock’s necklace. She had clearly just thrown away very beloved items in a sense of duty to her newfound path. 

“Right.” She began to tap away on her computer with spanking clean and clipped nails, “Well, this is a commercial port, held to the highest of international standards. Were there anything of that nature here—”

John counted to two and a half in his head as the girl spoke. 

“I’m smarter than you are, and I’m right!” Sherlock declared, “You thought you were right about your previous lifestyle overhaul, the unfortunate goth phase, didn’t you? Well you weren’t! You weren’t, and you aren’t! You’re the problem!”

That was clearly not the thing to say to a young woman so convinced that she was right and everyone else was killing their earth with consumerist habits and carnivorous diets. Within weeks, she’d be paleo or Ducan. Sherlock had gone right for her jugular, and focused on the fears that had made her seek out a rigid way of being, so rigid that she refused to even see her family because they did not live a zero waste lifestyle. 

“What she means to say…” Mycroft drawled. 

“I know what I mean to say!” Sherlock screeched, “Look at her roots showing through, she skipped her last salon appointment, as though vegans can’t have good hair! You can see she’s totally black and white. She’s been told to parrot that line like a good little worker bee, and if you wouldn’t interrupt we’d have MacPherson by now!”

“Look.” John pinched the bridge of his nose as Greg sighed, “You’ve got a dog. Imagine if Gerber were suffering. Wouldn’t you feel better if we just checked? All we need is some directions.”

Very red in the face, the girl rambled out some instructions. As they were walking away, she hollered out, “But how did you know his name was Gerber?”

Mycroft muttered, “Parlor tricks.”

John didn’t care. He knew how to fight dirty. He fought, and he won, and that was all that mattered. 

* * *

John counted to three in his head as his eyes adjusted to the darkness around Greg’s torch. There were rare and exotic animals shoved in a cargo hold. It was swealtering down here, for the ship was meant to hold timber and other goods and was instead a jail to several suffering creatures. They were in abject terror and misery, and it made his gut clench to shine his torch in their direction. 

John reached out to the poor gibbon who was stuffed in a dog crate sitting on some boxes, “We’re going to get you out of here, and home.”

The gibbon panted. John saw the gibbon, a few rare birds, a few rodents of some sort, and cages he’d rather avoid if possible. Living in the desert for so long had given him something of a phobia of spiders. It’d been a joke for his mates, but right now, he knew that if it meant saving the spiders, he’d carry them with his bare hands. 

 Sherlock was beside him as she slipped through the door, deductions in her eyes. John moved systematically from the right, Sherlock took the left as Greg moved down the center of the cramped but large space. They worked hurriedly, knowing that Mycroft could only keep the camera system down for a short period of time. They had less than ninety seconds remaining. 

John knew it would take him twenty seconds to grab the gibbon. He also knew that there had to be air vents somewhere, and he was determined to find some portholes or something to smash open. He hadn’t been Navy, but for the first time he wished he’d paid more attention on ships, rather than simply learning mostly in theory how to commandeer them, escape them, and the like. 

John heard a broken whimper, and watched as Sherlock began to shove aside a giant blue tarp. The material nearly weighed her down, and both Greg and John moved to help her quickly shove it back. There, underneath the tarp rested countless boxes of God knew what, which served as weights upon a metal dog crate. There, in a crate suited to a puppy half his size, rested a bound MacPherson. His muzzle and paws were bound with the tape. He had a laceration in his side running from his fourth rib to his hip. And yet, when he saw them struggling to open the crate, his tail wagged. 

“We’re going to get you out, mate.” John promised, as Sherlock worked to pick the first lock on the crate while Greg texted. John dimmed his torch, knowing they were running out of time. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Fucking shite cameras.” A voice grumbled, yards away, causing them to sill. 

With a quick glance at Sherlock, John prepared to take their new friend by surprise. Easily enough, just before the man could call out, John had him by the throat, “I’m going to be nice and let you go, but you’re going to stay where I put you, yeah?”

The beefy man, weak as a walrus, nodded as John drove him easily to his knees on the floor, “I don’t want no drama.”

“Is that why you bound up a defenseless animal?” Sherlock seethed, going back to working on her task. She lifted the latch, and reached in to undo the side of the crate to give their dog his stolen freedom. “Was his fear too dramatic for you?”

“I just watch ‘em.” The man with undiagnosed Type II diabetes blubbered, “You’re angry at Michael. I just watch the animals a bit on the trips.”

“You’re their jailor.” Sherlock declared, grabbing the knife from her lethally slim jeans and slicing through the tape that  bound their dog, the blade glinting in Lestrade’s torchlight. “You get paid to harm animals. Do you know what they do to animal abusers in prisons?”

“Oh, like you do.” The man was near to pissing himself in fear, but his loathing for woman rose to bolster him.

“She rather does,” John insisted, putting weight down through his arms as Walrus wiggled, “but if you don’t believe her, ask the copper in the corner.”

Lestrade made short work of telling their new buddy just where animal abusers fell on the prison totem poll, shining his torch at the man for maximum impact. They were about as highly esteemed as paedos and kiddie killers. “You won’t find yourself at HMP Berwyn.”

“Perhaps it would be more merciful to shoot you dead.” Sherlock mused, patting MacPherson as she finished slicing the tape on his back legs, “Then again, you deserve only the mercy you extend.”

“We won’t kill him.” John replied, “However, he’s going to tell us everything about our Mr. Weston. The more he says, the less likely he’ll find himself serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

“You can’t do that!” 

“You’ll find that we can.” Sherlock replied, “Talk.”

He talked. 

* * *

Sherlock insisted on staying on the boat with MacPherson. It was a close thing, but in the end her fierce desire to protect MacPherson won out over her desire for vengeance. Mycroft stayed behind to help the requisite authorities work out how to return stolen animals to their homes and habitats. 

As he made his way to the marina with John, Greg shook his head, “Just when I think I’ve seen it all, I meet an animal trafficker.”

John swallowed. He’d seen worse, but he didn’t need Greg to know that. Worse or better never really applied in these situations anyway. They were mere platitudes that helped him to understand that he had to survive the scenes playing out in his head, even now. “He’s been behind all those crimes in the States, Canada, and Norway.”

“The Americans are going to want to fry him.” Lestrade noted, rubbing his hands over his face, “We’re simply going to get his confession, John. Then we’re going to hand him off.”

John did not dignify him with a response. They were there, anyway. John looked at the yacht before them, a stylish craft called _The Menagerie_ , paid for entirely with blood money, bought with the suffering and death of countless animals. 

They smiled at the security and made sure to mention that Walter had sent them. John still couldn’t believe that the walrus’s name was Walter. He’d called him Vernon in his head. The security staff escorted them right to the door of Michael’s on-ship dining room. 

He was not surprised to see John, and sent away the staff. When the door shut, enclosing him, Lestrade, and Weston, in the room, John began, “You know why we’re here?”

“Look. I was going to take the cash in the morning.” Weston began, “Take the fucking dog. I don’t give a shit. I got my money. I don’t need their business anyway.”

“The fucking dog—” John growled, “has a name. You will use it.”

Weston rolled his eyes and moved towards his crystal decanters. “Gentlemen, seriously. The dog’s small potatoes. He’s got every potential to be a great show dog. Do you know how much those fuckers rake in per year?” 

“You’re admitting,” Greg spoke slowly, “to a member of New Scotland Yard, that you stole MacPherson with the intention of making him a show animal in America?”

“That’s what he was, don’t you see?” Weston swigged his brandy, and John itched to shoot him, to watch the glass shatter as Michael hit the ground in a pool of his own blood, “He was bred for it. You lot fixed him. The damages are because of that, and winnings lost. They’ve been looking for Hector for ages.” 

Weston drained his glass and grinned darkly at John, “I wasn’t the duffer who put him in the national spotlight.” He poured another drink, “The headlines, though, can’t you see them? Oh, they’re glorious.”

“And you’re just the kindly transport service,” John seethed, “with monkeys chained up and drugged in dog crates and birds taped up in boxes. You’ve been doing this for a decade. Interpol wants you. America’s itching. Canada’s being downright nasty in their earnest desire to see you handed over. Latin America’s ablaze. Even China wants you. There isn’t a country in the world that isn’t itching to flay your skin from your bones.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Johnny,” Weston taunted, “You act as though they have souls. They’re animals with a price on their heads. I merely facilitate the desires of humans. One tiger here, one elephant there, a dozen this or that along the way, all over the world. Dead or alive, it hardly matters to me.”

“Funny.” John remarked, “That’s what I was thinking about you.”

Lestrade spoke into his transmitter, “Send them in.”

Then, and then, the ship was filled with the sounds of boots and voices searching out Mr. Weston. He made every attempt to run, but John caught him. If he broke a few of Weston’s ribs in the process, well, that was only one-tenth of what he planned to do. 

* * *

 

“They need to go away.” John declared, staring at the swarm of veterinary staff that was working to ascertain the levels of damage for the dozen or so animals on the cargo ship, “This needs to be ripped out by the roots.” 

Mycroft paused, a calm tower of suppressed rage in the hum of activity around him. John’s hands ached, but his heart was heavier. He knew that this web, this ring, would be extinguished only by going to the source. As vile as he was, Michael was merely a cog in the wheel of a much larger machine. His intel had kept pouring in, and it seemed that MacPherson’s kidnapping had helped several governments to put together the puzzle pieces. They were powerless, cut off at the knees. 

Mycroft had clearly been anticipating this conversation, though he had perhaps expected it from his sister more than John. “You are aware, John, that what you are demanding will come with a counterbalance.”

John shrugged. This was not tit for tat. This was the dynamics of war, a game both he and Mycroft knew well. He knew he was asking Mycroft to see to the deaths of some very powerful people. He would do what he had to do to end their brutality, even if it meant facilitating their ends himself. 

“There’s a situation in the middle east that is uniquely suited to your skills.” Mycroft mentioned, offering up a bargain. “You are, naturally, willing to lend your services to your government and your nation.”

“For how long?” John knew he was literally making a deal with the Devil, but nothing else would end this animal trafficking ring. The only other way he could see was spending two to three years taking it down himself. Sherlock would think that more favorable, but John knew that reality too well to choose it again. MacPherson needed his mummy, if nothing else. 

“I begin to think you are not as dense as Sherlock contends in her fits of pique.” Mycroft answered, “No more than six to eight weeks. I will extract you personally if I must.”

John understood, then, that Mycroft would see things through in that time. Sherlock, he decided, was going to murder him for outsourcing this as he was. She would insist on seeing to it herself. 

He could see her now, flitting about Europe as he had once done, on the wind, trying to stay two steps ahead of death as she dove from bolthole to rendezvous spot. He could not consign her to that future. She was not to be harmed any more by the sights of what had awaited them in the cargo hold. The investigations would be overseen personally by her brother, and loose ends would be tied. 

Never again would Weston and his superiors make an animal suffer. If seeing to that made John a bad person, then so be it. He had long ago made peace with the darkness inside of him. He would not be silent in the face of these abuses. The courts would never, and could never, track down and charge people with enough power to disappear at will and assume identities as easily as he bought a new jumper on Etsy. 

It would be up to John to make it possible, through whatever means he had available. “Done.” 

Mycroft nodded, and began to text on that horrible iPhone that never left his hand. “You are a man of principle, John. Do not forget that you have given me your word.” 


End file.
